


Icebreaker

by Sineala



Category: Bullet Points (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Noir
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Cap-Ironman Bingo, Community: cap_ironman, Grief/Mourning, Hero Worship, M/M, Multiverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-12-04 03:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11546445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/pseuds/Sineala
Summary: Months after Tony is murdered on a strange, starless world, a world almost no one remembers, Steve plummets from a drone plane into the cold waters of the North Atlantic. He's fully expecting not to survive -- but instead he wakes up on another new world, where he meets a very familiar stranger. And it turns out the two of them have a lot in common.





	Icebreaker

**Author's Note:**

> For Cap-IM Bingo; the square is "automat." I was going to have Noir Tony meet Bullet Points Steve and each wonder WTF the other one was doing being Iron Man, but then Magicasen convinced me it would be much more angsty if Noir Steve met Bullet Points Tony. I don't think she was envisioning something as angsty as this, though.
> 
> Set slightly after Bullet Points #3 in terms of Bullet Points continuity, assuming events proceeded as they did in canon; as for Noir continuity, this is incorporating the events of Secret Wars Journal #3. (Basically, the two canonical character deaths are in play, one in each continuity. Sorry, Bullet Points Steve and Noir Tony!)
> 
> If you need it, my introductory Bullet Points picspam (with spoilers) is [here](http://sineala.tumblr.com/post/156518230139/bullet-points).
> 
> Thanks to Magicasen for beta!

Steve dug his fingers into the leading edge of the drone plane's wing and dragged himself up, fighting the wind, the scale mail of his uniform scraping over rivets, until he managed to pull himself upright and plaster himself against the cockpit. Through the glass, he could see a sinister red flash, a repeated light, and that was when he caught sight of the explosives.

He had a half-second to think _thank God I made Bucky stay on land_ before the bomb went off.

It was a long way down, a long way to see his own death coming. The air whipped around him as he fell. Below him, the North Atlantic was gray and choppy, the waters flecked with ice. Even if he landed safely, it would be far too cold to survive. And he already knew he wasn't going to land safely. From this high up, hitting water was like hitting solid concrete.

They always said your life was supposed to flash before your eyes. But instead, Steve's mind was almost perfectly blank. Accepting. He could feel his entire body settling into a calmness, a readiness -- maybe even a kind of welcome.

 _Wait for me, Tony_ , he thought. _I'm coming_.

The sea was very close now. Steve shut his eyes, breathed in and out and--

\--nothing.

Nothing?

He opened his eyes.

The world around him was gone. Everything was a featureless gray, a flat land extending on into eternity, and he was standing in the middle of it.

Was this some kind of Nazi trick? A hallucination? Maybe there'd been gas with the bomb. They were certainly capable of it. He should have expected nothing less from the men who had unleashed Zemo on the world, over and over; whenever one died, they brainwashed the next one.

He was almost glad Tony wasn't here to see it.

He ruthlessly quashed the swell of grief. It had been months and months since... since, well, Steve wasn't quite sure what to call it. He had only the dimmest memories of a faraway world, a land without stars. He'd been there, they'd all been there -- but somehow, Tony hadn't come back.

It felt like a dream, a nightmare: Tony dead on the floor of his office. And the worst of it was that Steve didn't know when it had happened, or how, or why, but somehow it had, because everyone had come back from this strange land... except Tony. There was no body, no grave, no closure. Only a fading memory.

The gray world closed on around Steve, and he hefted his shield higher, but there were no threats to be seen. He glanced back. The way he had come was just as blank as the way he was going; there was no sign of the plane or the water. Had he been transported somewhere? Or was this all a dream? Or was this death, finally?

He'd been going to hit the water hard. Maybe he was dead after all.

He hoped he'd stopped the plane.

If he was dead, it was sure as hell a better death than Tony had gotten.

He needed to focus. He needed to figure out some way out of here. He couldn't get distracted thinking about Tony.

 _Keep your head in the game, Steve_ , Tony said, in his mind's eye, the way he always had, smiling that smile that had always made Steve's heart skip a beat. _Stay focused. Stay alive. Be safe. I'd miss you if you bought the farm, you know?_ The memory was crystal-clear, agonizingly perfect, the way all of Steve's memories were now, since the serum.

And Steve had nodded and smiled and moved on. He hadn't-- he'd never told Tony how he felt.

He'd wondered sometimes if Tony had known. Tony had been far from stupid, after all, and it had been no secret how big a fan Steve was of Tony's Marvels adventures. Steve had taken every excuse to be near him, gotten himself reassigned to every one of Tony's missions that he could, and every time they'd gotten close, he'd... chickened out. Every time, at the last moment, he'd turned away. He'd never said _I love you, I want you, let me stay with you, let me hold your hand, please let me kiss you._

He'd always thought there would be more time.

He'd known it was a thing he should never have counted on. Life was fleeting, and life in the middle of a war most of all. But Tony had always lived a charmed life. He'd brushed up against death so many times that Steve had begun to believe Tony was immortal.

Steve had been wrong.

And now Tony was just... gone.

A bleak sadness, as pale as the washed-out land around him, battered at Steve, but he trudged on. He had to keep going. Even if Tony was gone, he'd sworn oaths. Steve fought for his country. He was proud of that. He had to be.

Tony would have wanted him to keep fighting.

God, he was so tired.

Steve took another step--

\--and he was somewhere else.

As quickly as the gray world had come, it had gone away. Around Steve, the fog was lifting, and soon there was no trace of the fog at all. It was midday, and the sky above Steve was bright. Shield still in hand, Steve glanced around, taking in everything he could.

It looked like New York.

It couldn't be -- how had he gotten here? -- but it had to be. It was a little off, though. The cars looked different; the women on the street were in unfamiliar fashions, their hemlines far too short, and there were more men of Steve's age than he thought should be there. Shouldn't they be overseas?

A few people glanced at him in distaste as they brushed past him, and that-- that, he didn't understand. He was in his Captain America uniform. Surely people recognized him! But a man a few feet away was squinting disdainfully, like Steve was some kind of kook in a flag costume, and that... didn't make any sense. They had to know who he was. Maybe it wasn't New York?

It really did look like New York, though.

After another few seconds, Steve sighed and slung his shield on his back. If the Nazis were out to get him, they weren't coming right now. Maybe he could relax.

As if on cue, his stomach growled.

And, he was pleased to see, there was an automat across the street. Good old Horn & Hardart. Well, he had a few nickels in his pocket; he could get a square meal, even in this strange place, and maybe with some food in him he could figure out what to do about getting home. If this was a place he could even come back from.

It must have been after the lunch rush, because even from the outside it was plain to see that there were a lot of empty tables. When Steve stepped inside, he saw only a few people scattered across the restaurant. He hardly paid them any mind; he was busy staring at the array of food, thinking about how much money he had on him. He was trying to decide whether he wanted beef stew or macaroni and cheese when one of the patrons, a man reading a newspaper at the far end of the room, glanced up at Steve, the newcomer, and set his paper down to get a better look at him.

The movement drew Steve's attention and -- he thought maybe his heart would stop.

It was Tony.

There was a great roaring in Steve's ears, like a shell had gone off inside his head, and the rest of the world rushed away, insubstantial around him. The only thing that mattered was Tony.

God, oh, God, Steve was dead after all. He was dead, he had to be, and this was the afterlife, because Tony was here. _I don't rightly know whether God exists_ , Tony had confided, one night as they pitched camp, _but I know I'm not going to heaven, Cap_ , he'd added, his eyes dark and somber, clouded.

Was Steve in heaven?

Well, honestly, he couldn't imagine heaven without Tony in it.

And Tony looked... good. He looked a decade or so younger than Steve remembered him, like maybe he was about Steve's own age now; if this was the afterlife, then surely Tony could be any age he wanted. He didn't look the way he had the last few times Steve had seen him, exhausted, worn, more and more ragged, although Tony had never admitted it. Tony looked like he'd been getting enough sleep, enough food, and furthermore like no one had been shooting at him recently. He'd shaved, which was a little strange for him; he was down to just a mustache. But he was clean and well-dressed, dapper and put-together, wearing a very nice suit. He looked almost... happy. 

He was beautiful. He'd always been.

"Tony!" Steve called out, and he practically stumbled over his own feet, tripping forward, staggering, holding out his hands. Now was when Tony would stand up, would rush to meet him, would embrace him.

And Tony... didn't move.

Tony's gaze darted around the room, like he was trying to figure out who Steve must really be talking to, like there was someone nearby whom Steve must actually have known. When his gaze returned to Steve, it was confused and blank.

"I'm sorry," Tony said, and oh God, it was his voice, that pleasant light tenor, a voice Steve hadn't heard in so very long. "Have we met?"

Wobbling, Steve reached Tony's table and stood a foot away from it; Tony was still sitting there, unmoving. He hadn't invited Steve to join him.

"You know me," Steve said, and Tony just kept staring. "Please, Tony." The Captain America uniform should have been a giveaway in and of itself, but at least he had his real name left. And if he was dead, he didn't need his secret identity; he pulled back the cowl and held his hands out, pleading. "It's me. It's Steve."

Tony raised an eyebrow. "Steve...?" 

He let the name trail off like he was actually prompting him for the rest of it, and he looked Steve up and down, thoroughly, skeptically, like he'd never seen Steve's uniform in his life and he thought it was ridiculous. The scrutiny stung.

"Steve Rogers," Steve said, hearing his voice rise in desperation. What kind of heaven was this, if Tony didn't even know his name? It was the worst kind of torture. "Please. You know who I am. You can't have forgotten me."

And then Tony's face did change -- from incomprehension into downright incredulity. What the hell?

"Steve _Rogers_?" Tony repeated. Tony was studying his face, urgently, wide-eyed, overwhelmed by some strong emotion. "Any relation to the war hero? Good lord, you really do look like you could be-- but you must be-- I didn't even know he had a son." He eyed Steve's biceps with a certain amount of dubious admiration, and perhaps a flicker of appreciation; he'd caught Tony looking at him like that before, but always so quickly as to be deniable. "I have to say you look a whole lot sturdier than your old man."

Steve stared. "The war hero? My old man? What?"

None of this made sense.

"You must be his son, right?" Tony asked, in that way he had of asking something where it wasn't quite a question because it was the first step in a chain of inferences that he was already halfway down. "Colonel Rogers? The Iron Man?" He frowned. "Still doesn't explain why you think you know me, though."

He couldn't take this. He'd thought nothing could be worse than Tony being dead -- but Tony alive and refusing to admit he knew him was unimaginably hideous. There was a cold ache in his chest, gnawing at the hollow that had been there within him for months, since the half-remembered dream where Tony's body lay on a polished wooden floor.

"Tony," Steve pleaded, and his voice broke on the name. "I don't understand. I'm not a colonel. I'm a captain. You know that. I'm Captain America." His throat closed over the words. "And you were-- you were Iron Man, and you died months ago, and I miss you so much. It's killing me to fight without you. If this is some kind of afterlife, I don't know why you don't _know_ me--"

Blindly, he stumbled forward, bracing himself on the table, and when he looked up, Tony was staring at him with a dawning realization.

"Captain," Tony said, like he was a stranger, and the title scraped raw and sharp over what was left of Steve's heart. "I'm going to ask you a question. What year is it?"

Steve blinked. "1945. Of course."

Tony's smile was faint and pained. "You're not dead, Captain. But I think you're a long, long way from home."

And then Steve figured it out: this was another world, like the strange, starless world where Tony had died, the world almost no one remembered. He was somewhere else.

This wasn't his home. This wasn't his New York. This wasn't his Tony.

Tony gestured at the chair opposite him. "Do you want to sit?"

He sat.

When he looked up, Tony's gaze was fixed on him, and there was an odd look in his eyes, something bright and shining. He was smiling. He looked like-- well, he looked like one of the fans who had seen him in a newsreel and lined up to meet Captain America. And then Tony took a breath and his face smoothed out into that familiar determination, that perfect confidence that Tony had always seemed to have in spades. "I'm going to show you a newspaper article," Tony said. "Please don't faint." He half-smiled. "Boy, Dr. Richards is going to love this," he added, under his breath.

Steve wondered who Dr. Richards was.

He opened up the paper in front of him, turned a few pages, and then folded the whole thing over and set it down in front of Steve.

The date at the top of the page was July 12, 1963. That was the first shock, and the rest of the page blurred. He couldn't even look at the words.

"Eighteen years?" Steve blurted out. "I-- oh, God. The war. Did we--?"

Tony nodded, quickly. "We won. It's over." He nodded toward the paper. "You... might want to keep reading." He tapped an article about two-thirds down, and then Steve saw it.

The headline said ONE YEAR LATER: REMEMBERING THE IRON MAN.

 _Steven Rogers_ , the article began, and then continued, in parentheses, _July 4, 1920 - July 12, 1962_ , and Steve dropped the paper with shaking hands. He could feel the blood drain from his face.

He was dead. He was in another world's future, and the Steve Rogers who'd belonged here -- he was dead.

"Hey, hey, breathe," Tony said, from very far away. It was that achingly familiar comforting tone of his, the one that was usually accompanied by Tony's hand on his shoulder, but Tony didn't know him well enough to want to touch him, because Tony was dead and he was dead oh God oh God oh God--

There was a scraping noise, and when Steve turned his head -- his reactions were molasses-slow -- he saw Tony was out of his chair, crouching on the floor next to him, one hand wrapped around his wrist, and the other hand nudging a glass of water forward.

"You're okay," Tony said, low and soothing. He grimaced at the paper. "I mean, _he's_ not, obviously, but you're all right. Here. Drink something."

Steve took a sip of water, and then another. Tony squeezed his hand encouragingly.

When Steve could breathe again, he picked up the paper. Tony sat back down and let his hand go, but his fingers still rested on the table, inches from Steve's, waiting in case he was needed. God, he was just like Tony. He _was_ Tony.

The world in the article was like the other side of a mirror. In this world, he learned, he'd enlisted and become part of Project Iron Man. The Army had made the suit, and they'd wired him up to it in some way that wasn't quite clear from the description, but that had obviously taken some kind of toll on his health; the article repeatedly stressed his bravery, his willingness to endure unimaginable pain. And he'd been good in the suit. As good as his world's Tony had once been, maybe. If the article was telling the truth, he'd single-handedly won several major engagements. He'd practically won the war.

There was a picture, too, and Steve's head swam to see it, because it was a face he had seen all his life, a face he'd never seen before, and yet it was a face he had stopped seeing five years ago. It was him, maybe fifteen years in the future, wearing a service uniform with rows upon rows of ribbons. His narrow, sharp-boned face was scarred, but he was grinning proudly at the camera, head held high, determination gleaming in his eyes. But even the uniform couldn't hide his thin, bony body, the jut of his shoulders, the way the fabric was cut close all the way down his torso. He was a hundred twenty pounds, and he looked it. This was how Steve had looked before Rebirth. This was how he would have looked if Rebirth had never happened. This could have been his body. This could have been his life.

Next to him was something huge and metal, a little taller than he was: the Iron Man armor. This version of Steve, this colonel, had one hand braced proprietarily on the forearm of the armor, as if to say _this one's mine_.

There were a few cursory sentences about his life after the war: he'd done some fighting in Korea -- Christ, there was going to be another goddamn war after this one? -- in the 1950s, and eventually he'd settled down and left active duty. Never married, apparently. Steve glanced back at his counterpart's smeared-newsprint eyes and wondered just how much they'd had in common.

And he'd died a year ago. He'd been pulled out of retirement to fight some kind of monster the newspaper had dubbed "the Hulk," a giant laying waste to Manhattan, and he... hadn't made it. Massive internal injuries. He'd died right there on the street.

It was deeply strange, reading his own obituary.

There were quotations from people who'd known him, people he'd saved during the war. Dear God, one of them was a Colonel James Barnes; Bucky would be thrilled about that. Someone named Reed Richards -- perhaps that was Tony's Dr. Richards -- seemed to be one of his few real friends.

And now he was gone.

Steve put the paper down. Tony was watching him, carefully.

"You okay?" Tony asked. His voice was gentle.

Steve nodded.

"Glad to hear it."

The article, he realized, hadn't mentioned Tony.

"So you don't know me," Steve ventured. "You don't know me at all."

Tony smiled another lopsided smile. "I always wanted to meet you," he said, which meant no. "You were one of my heroes."

Steve chuckled. "You were one of mine. I was over the moon to find out I was working with you. I mean, you're _Tony Stark_."

"I'm famous?"

Steve squinted at him. "You're not famous here?"

"Eh," Tony said. "I mean, yes, I own a multi-million dollar engineering company, but... I'm not anyone's hero. Not like that. You should see the way you're looking at me." God, what if Tony had known and never said? "Who am I in your world?"

_You were everything to me._

"You were an engineer too," Steve told him. "But really, you were an adventurer. You were always looking for artifacts. You had a magazine about your adventures. I-- I read every issue when I was a kid, and then there was the war, and I actually got to work with you. I couldn't believe it." He met Tony's gaze. "And you-- you were Iron Man. Not me. You built the suit maybe a decade ago."

Tony watched him in silence.

"I was in a different project," Steve added. "I don't know that I'm allowed to tell you the details, but let's just say I didn't always look quite like this."

"Rebirth worked?" Tony said, awed. "My God, Richards is going to love you."

Steve's heart pounded. "You-- you know about--?"

"It existed here," Tony said. "Except it never got off the ground. I read an interview with you. The other you. You said you were supposed to be in it, but when it turned out not to be possible, they transferred you into a different project."

And just like that, history had changed. He'd become Iron Man.

There was another pause and then Tony smiled, too casually, leaned back in his chair and said, "So, how did I die?"

Steve licked his lips.

"It was my heart, wasn't it?" Tony asked, and he rubbed two fingers over his sternum. "Goddammit."

Steve shook his head. "No. You-- you always thought it was going to be." He remembered Tony laughing, tapping the repulsor pump in his chest, saying _not much time left on the old ticker_. As he thought about it, that strange other world came back to him, as if it was something that would just come back when he said the right words. "You were alone in your office and someone just-- came in and shot you dead. Stole one of your statues. Left. It was so goddamn _senseless_. You were just... gone."

His eyes were hot with tears, and he couldn't speak.

They'd never found the killer. The press had rumored that it was a jilted lover. The police had suspected Pepper.

Pepper hadn't come back from that world, either.

None of it made sense.

"You look like you miss him a lot," Tony said, very very quietly.

Steve nodded.

Tony looked him over again, an appraising look, and Steve wondered what he was looking for -- but he must have found it, because he smiled a sad smile. "You want to come home with me?" He gestured at the world around him, the world where Steve didn't belong. "I mean, if you don't have anywhere else to go."

He'd always wanted Tony to ask that.

"Yeah," Steve said, and he swallowed down the tears. "Yeah, I'd love to."

* * *

The back of Tony's car was private and eerily silent; Tony said nothing as they pulled away, nothing for three more blocks.

And then Tony swallowed hard and said, "So I've got a theory. Please don't punch me."

And he laid his hand on Steve's thigh and everything in Steve came to a halt, lonely and bleeding out, cold and hot at the same time, because they'd never--

" _Please_ ," Steve whispered, and then Tony's hands were cupping his face and Tony was kissing him and kissing him. Tony was warm and alive against him, his body pressed up against Steve's, pushing him against the car's padded seat, and it was everything he'd ever wanted but it was too late.

He realized when Tony lifted his head that he'd been crying; his own tears were smeared across Tony's face.

"Is this okay?" Tony asked, softly. And then even softer: "Am I-- am I not enough like him?"

"We never," Steve said, and he had to shut his eyes. "I was a coward. I don't even know if he would have--"

Tony brushed the back of his hand over Steve's face. "He would have, okay? Because I'm him, and I've wanted to for years." He snorted. "Longstanding fantasy coming true, right here."

"Yeah," Steve agreed. "It's one of mine, too."

"I can't be him," Tony said. "I'm sorry." He smiled a very small smile.

It was a curious thing, Steve thought, that they each fit the holes in the other's heart.

"It's all right," Steve told him. "I'm sure you're great at being you."

It wasn't as if falling in love with Tony Stark again was going to be some kind of hardship.

* * *

Stark Mansion was exactly as grand as Tony had always said it was.

"So here's the library," Tony said, opening the door to a pleasantly musty room. Steve caught glimpses of dark wood paneling, overstuffed leather chairs, and shelves of books, which was confirmed when Tony led him inside.

He liked it. It looked safe.

 _If you're ever on leave, you have to come see my library_ , Tony had offered, once, and it hadn't exactly been the offer Steve had wanted, but he'd been overjoyed nonetheless. _Best room in the house. You'll love the artifacts._

He'd never been to the mansion. He'd only been to Tony's office in Midtown, and then only to identify the body.

There were no artifacts here.

Steve smiled. "Nice place."

"Thanks," Tony smiled. "If you want to wait here a minute or two, I'll see if I can get through to Dr. Richards. I'm not sure how long it'll take. He's an awfully busy man, but I'm pretty sure that if I mention your name--"

Tony was half-turning away as he talked, heading out the door, and Steve reached for him before he realized what he was doing, then stopped, uncertain, his hand still in midair. He had no claim on Tony, and certainly not on this Tony.

"Uh," Steve said, embarrassed, and he let his arm fall. "Never mind. I should let you go--"

"No, no," Tony murmured. "Not a problem. Not a problem at all, believe me."

And then Tony grabbed his hand -- even through the glove, Steve could feel the warmth of his fingers -- and something in Steve lit up, something that had been cold and dark for so long. And then Tony pulled him into his arms and that was even better, it was better but it still wasn't right--

"Hey," Tony breathed. "It's okay. I'm here."

And he was here, all right, but he wasn't Tony, and Steve tucked his face against Tony's shoulder and started to cry again, helplessly, shaking.

"Shh," Tony said, and his hands smoothed over Steve's back. "I've got you."

He let Tony nudge him gently across the room to a couch surrounded by towering bookcases -- safe, his back to the wall, no line of sight for a shooter, no one coming for him -- and he collapsed onto the cushions, tears dripping off his face, feeling his breath whoosh out of him like he'd run a marathon. Like he was the dead messenger from Marathon.

Everything was hitting him too hard. It felt like he had no defenses. He supposed it made sense. He'd come from a war. An hour ago he'd thought he was going to die.

Tony sat next to him. Hip to hip, knee to knee, his thigh pressed against Steve's and one arm over Steve's shoulders, holding him close.

Mute, Tony offered him a handkerchief with his other hand, and Steve gratefully wiped his face clean.

They sat in silence; Steve's rasping breaths were the only sound in the room.

"I'm sorry," Steve said, finally.

Tony's hand was on his knee again, his fingers stroking a comforting aimless pattern over Steve's thigh. "Don't be sorry." And then his grip was stilted, awkward. "But... we don't exactly have forever, do we? Don't you want to see about getting you home?"

Steve was seized with an instant denial, and he just barely stopped himself from clutching Tony tight. _Please don't make me leave you again_ , he wanted to cry out. _I just found you_.

But it was wrong and it was selfish and he had a war to fight. He had to go home and--

Christ, if he went home, he was going to die.

If he went home, he was probably already dead.

Steve coughed and found his voice. "When-- when did you say the war ended, again?"

"I didn't." Tony's voice was carefully even, slow and level. "But it was 1945."

Steve exhaled hard. He'd been so close. "When in '45?"

"Hitler committed suicide at the end of April," Tony said, and hell, it would only be _another month_. "Germany surrendered in May, and Japan surrendered in August."

"Where I was," Steve said, staring ahead, not seeing anything, "it was March. But I don't think-- I don't think I can go back. I don't think I'm _alive_ anymore there." He swallowed hard and shut his eyes. "I was on a plane. There was an explosion, and I was falling toward the water, and I-- and I--"

Tony's hand was on his shoulder. Tony's fingers were splayed over the back of his neck, twined in the remains of his cowl. Tony's thumb rubbed over the junction of his neck and shoulder. He'd always had good hands.

"You're okay," Tony told him, low and easy, that voice that made Steve want to believe whatever he was saying.

"And then I was here," Steve finished. "I think it was a one-way ticket."

The corners of Tony's lips twitched when Steve glanced up. "Well," he said, on a sigh. "That's hard. But... if you have to be somewhere else, I can't say I'm not happy to have you. You can stay for as long as you want," he added. "I'm not-- I didn't mean to sound like I was kicking you out."

Geez, did Tony think he owed Steve all this just because Steve had loved him on another world? "You don't owe me anything--"

Tony's smile went crooked. "I'm not as altruistic as you think I am." He snorted. "You think I was kidding when I said I had some longstanding fantasies? I still can't believe I'm in a room with _Steve Rogers_." There was something slow and dreamy in his eyes. "I can't believe you let me kiss you."

The wonder in his voice was... well, it was a hell of a lot like what Steve felt. The sheer disbelief that somehow, his feelings could be returned.

"I almost kissed you, once," Steve said, the memory wrapping him up in a blanket of wistful regret. "We were hunkered down, taking fire, and I got the -- well, you called it _goddamn stupid_ \-- idea to draw fire, what with me having the shield and all. You had to suit up and come rescue me, and you yelled at me for about ten minutes straight about how I was going to get myself killed, and didn't I know you were the one in the bulletproof suit, and then you ripped off your helmet and that was when I saw you were crying." He drew a ragged breath. "And you said, _don't you dare die on me_ and I-- I should have-- but I didn't. I didn't do anything."

Tony pressed his hand to Steve's face, and Steve turned his head blindly, pushing up against Tony's palm.

Tony's smile was sad and wry. "You want another chance?"

Their lips met again. This time the kiss was slow, soft, sweet, and Steve felt a little better for it.

"I dreamed about kissing you, too," Tony confided. "Of course, you were the one in the suit and I'd-- well, I'd peel you out of it."

"Yeah," Steve said. "I had that one too. Mostly before I knew you. After I knew you, it turned out you were a little touchy about people getting their hands on your gear, although you pretended you weren't, to be polite."

Tony was quiet for a few seconds. "It's strange, isn't it? You know me, sort of, but I don't really know you. I mean, except from books and newsreels. But you... you know what I'm like."

"I have it on good authority," Steve said, because he thought giving a warning was probably the decent thing to do, "that I'm the stubbornest son-of-a-bitch you've ever met. Just so you know what you're getting into."

"I can live with that," Tony said, and he kissed him again.

It wasn't Steve's home. It wasn't ever going to be Steve's home. But here was a Tony who wanted him, and he wasn't going to wait around anymore. He was never going to take his time for granted.

**Author's Note:**

> The usual Tumblr post is [here](http://sineala.tumblr.com/post/163165401794/fic-icebreaker).


End file.
